“I was,” he said.
She waited.
He said, “I was disappointed.”
“Angry,” she said.
“Angry,” he said.
He poured her glass full.
“I had the power to know power, then,” he said. “And you—you shone, in that terrible place, the Labyrinth, that darkness. . . .”
“Well, then, tell me: what should I have done with my power, and the knowledge Ogion tried to teach me?”
“Use it.”
“How?”
“As the Art Magic is used.”
“By whom?”
“Wizards,” he said, a little painfully.
“Magic means the skills, the arts of wizards, of mages?”
“What else would it mean?”
“Is that all it could ever mean?”
He pondered, glancing up at her once or twice.
“When Ogion taught me,” she said, “here—at the hearth there—the words of the Old Speech, they were as easy and as hard in my mouth as in his. That was like learning the language I spoke before I was born. But the rest—the lore, the runes of power, the spells, the rules, the raising of the forces—that was all dead to me. Somebody else’s language. I used to think, I could be dressed up as a warrior, with a lance and a sword and a plume and all, but it wouldn’t fit, would it? What would I do with the sword? Would it make me a hero? I’d be myself in clothes that didn’t fit, is all, hardly able to walk.”
She sipped her wine.
“So I took it all off,” she said, “and put on my own clothes.”
“What did Ogion say when you left him?”
“What did Ogion usually say?”
That roused the shadowy smile again. He said nothing.
She nodded.
After a while, she went on more softly, “He took me because you brought me to him. He wanted no prentice after you, and he never would have taken a girl but from you, at your asking. But he loved me. He did me honor. And I loved and honored him. But he couldn’t give me what I wanted, and I couldn’t take what he had to give me. He knew that. But, Ged, it was a different matter when he saw Therru. The day before he died. You say, and Moss says, that power knows power. I don’t know what he saw in her, but he said, ‘Teach her!’ And he said . . .”
Ged waited.
“He said, ‘They will fear her.’ And he said, ‘Teach her all! Not Roke.’ I don’t know what he meant. How can I know? If I had stayed here with him I might know, I might be able to teach her. But I thought, Ged will come, he’ll know. He’ll know what to teach her, what she needs to know, my wronged one.”
“I do not know,” he said, speaking very low. “I saw—In the child I see only—the wrong done. The evil.”
He drank off his wine.
“I have nothing to give her,” he said.
There was a little scraping knock at the door. He started up instantly with that same helpless turn of the body, looking for a place to hide.
Tenar went to the door, opened it a crack, and smelled Moss before she saw her.
“Men in the village,” the old woman whispered dramatically. “All kind of fine folk come up from the Port, from the great ship that’s in from Havnor City, they say. Come after the Archmage, they say.”
“He doesn’t want to see them,” Tenar said weakly. She had no idea what to do.
“I dare say not,” said the witch. And after an expectant pause, “Where is he, then?”
“Here,” said Sparrowhawk, coming to the door and opening it wider. Moss eyed him and said nothing.
“Do they know where I am?”
“Not from me,” Moss said.
“If they come here,” said Tenar, “all you have to do is send them away—after all, you are the Archmage—”
Neither he nor Moss was paying attention to her.
“They won’t come to my house,” Moss said. “Come on, if you like.”
He followed her, with a glance but no word to Tenar.
“But what am I to tell them?” she demanded.
“Nothing, dearie,” said the witch.
Heather and Therru came back from the marshes with seven dead frogs in a net bag, and Tenar busied herself cutting off and skinning the legs for the hunters’ supper. She was just finishing when she heard voices outside, and looking up at the open door saw people standing at it—men in hats, a twist of gold, a glitter—“Mistress Goha?” said a civil voice.
“Come in!” she said.
They came in: five men, seeming twice as many in the low-ceilinged room, and tall, and grand. They looked about them, and she saw what they saw.
They saw a woman standing at a table, holding a long, sharp knife. On the table was a chopping board and on that, to one side, a little heap of naked greenish-white legs; to the other, a heap of fat, bloody, dead frogs. In the shadow behind the door something lurked—a child, but a child deformed, mismade, half-faced, claw-handed. On a bed in an alcove beneath the single window sat a big, bony young woman, staring at them with her mouth wide open. Her hands were bloody and muddy and her dank skirt smelled of marsh-water. When she saw them look at her, she tried to hide her face with her skirt, baring her legs to the thigh.
They looked away from her, and from the child, and there was no one else to look at but the woman with the dead frogs.
“Mistress Goha,” one of them repeated.
“So I’m called,” she said.
“We come from Havnor, from the King,” said the civil voice. She could not see his face clearly against the light. “We seek the Archmage, Sparrowhawk of Gont. King Lebannen is to be crowned at the turn of autumn, and he seeks to have the Archmage, his lord and friend, with him to make ready for the coronation, and to crown him, if he will.”
The man spoke steadily and formally, as to a lady in a palace. He wore sober breeches of leather and a linen shirt dusty from the climb up from Gont Port, but it was fine cloth, with embroidery of gold thread at the throat.
“He’s not here,” Tenar said.
A couple of little boys from the village peered in at the door and drew back, peered again, fled shouting.
“Maybe you can tell us where he is, Mistress Goha,” said the man.
“I cannot.”
She looked at them all. The fear of them she had felt at first—caught from Sparrowhawk’s panic, perhaps, or mere foolish fluster at seeing strangers—was subsiding. Here she stood in Ogion’s house; and she knew well enough why Ogion had never been afraid of great people.
“You must be tired after that long road,” she said. “Will you sit down? There’s wine. Here, I must wash the glasses.”
She carried the chopping board over to the sideboard, put the frogs’ legs in the larder, scraped the rest into the swill-pail that Heather would carry to Weaver Fan’s pigs, washed her hands and arms and the knife at the basin, poured fresh water, and rinsed out the two glasses she and Sparrowhawk had drunk from. There was one other glass in the cabinet, and two clay cups without handles. She set these on the table, and poured wine for the visitors; there was just enough left in the bottle to go round. They had exchanged glances, and had not sat down. The shortage of chairs excused that. The rules of hospitality, however, bound them to accept what she offered. Each man took glass or cup from her with a polite murmur. Saluting her, they drank.
“My word!” said one of them.
“Andrades—the Late Harvest,” said another, with round eyes.
A third shook his head. “Andrades—the Dragon Year,” he said solemnly.
The fourth nodded and sipped again, reverent.
The fifth, who was the first to have spoken, lifted his clay cup to Tenar again and said, “You honor us with a king’s wine, mistress.”
“It was Ogion’s,” she said. “This was Ogion’s house. This is Aihal’s house. You knew that, my lords?”
“We did, mistress. The King sent us to this house, believing that the Archmage would come here; and, when word of the death of its master c
ame to Roke and Havnor, yet more certain of it. But it was a dragon that bore the Archmage from Roke. And no word or sending has come from him since then to Roke or to the King. And it is much in the King’s heart, and much in the interest of us all, to know the Archmage is here, and is well. Did he come here, mistress?”
“I cannot say,” she said, but it was a poor equivocation, repeated, and she could see that the men thought so. She drew herself up, standing behind the table. “I mean that I will not say. I think if the Archmage wishes to come, he will come. If he wishes not to be found, you will not find him. Surely you will not seek him out against his will.”
The oldest of the men, and the tallest, said, “The King’s will is ours.”
The first speaker said more conciliatingly, “We are only messengers. What is between the King and the Archmage of the Isles is between them. We seek only to bring the message, and the reply.”
“If I can, I will see that your message reaches him.”
“And the reply?” the oldest man demanded.
She said nothing, and the first speaker said, “We’ll be here some few days at the house of the Lord of Re Albi, who, hearing of our ship’s arrival, offered us his hospitality.”
She felt a sense of a trap laid or a noose tightening, though she did not know why. Sparrowhawk’s vulnerability, his sense of his own weakness, had infected her. Distraught, she used the defense of her appearance, her seeming to be a mere goodwife, a middle-aged housekeeper—but was it seeming? It was also truth, and these matters were more subtle even than the guises and shape-changes of wizards—She ducked her head and said, “That will be more befitting your lordships’ comfort. You see we live very plain here, as the old mage did.”
“And drink Andrades wine,” said the one who had identified the vintage, a bright-eyed, handsome man with a winning smile. She, playing her part, kept her head down. But as they took their leave and filed out, she knew that, seem what she might and be what she might, if they did not know now that she was Tenar of the Ring they would know it soon enough; and so would know that she herself knew the Archmage and was indeed their way to him, if they were determined to seek him out.
When they were gone, she heaved a great sigh. Heather did so too, and then finally shut her mouth, which had hung open all the time they were there.
“I never,” she said, in a tone of deep, replete satisfaction, and went to see where the goats had got to.
Therru came out from the dark place behind the door, where she had barricaded herself from the strangers with Ogion’s staff and Tenar’s alder stick and her own hazel switch. She moved in the tight, sidling way she had mostly abandoned since they had been here, not looking up, the ruined half of her face bent down toward the shoulder.
Tenar went to her and knelt to hold her in her arms. “Therru,” she said, “they won’t hurt you. They mean no harm.”
The child would not look at her. She let Tenar hold her like a block of wood.
“If you say so, I won’t let them in the house again.”
After a while the child moved a little and asked in her hoarse, thick voice, “What will they do to Sparrowhawk?”
“Nothing,” Tenar said. “No harm! They come—they mean to do him honor.”
But she had begun to see what their attempt to do him honor would do to him—denying his loss, denying him his grief for what he had lost, forcing him to act the part of what he was no longer.
When she let the child go, Therru went to the closet and fetched out Ogion’s broom. She laboriously swept the floor where the men from Havnor had stood, sweeping away their footprints, sweeping the dust of their feet out the door, off the doorstep.
Watching her, Tenar made up her mind.
She went to the shelf where Ogion’s three great books stood, and rummaged there. She found several goose quills and a half-dried-up bottle of ink, but not a scrap of paper or parchment. She set her jaw, hating to do damage to anything so sacred as a book, and scored and tore out a thin strip of paper from the blank endsheet of the Book of Runes. She sat at the table and dipped the pen and wrote. Neither the ink nor the words came easy. She had scarcely written anything since she had sat at this same table a quarter of a century ago, with Ogion looking over her shoulder, teaching her the runes of Hardic and the Great Runes of Power. She wrote:
go oak farm in midl valy to clerbrook
say goha sent to look to garden & sheep
It took her nearly as long to read it over as it had to write it. By now Therru had finished her sweeping and was watching her, intent. She added one word:
to-night
“Where’s Heather?” she asked the child, as she folded the paper on itself once and twice. “I want her to take this to Aunty Moss’s house.”
She longed to go herself, to see Sparrowhawk, but dared not be seen going, lest they were watching her to lead them to him.
“I’ll go,” Therru whispered.
Tenar looked at her sharply.
“You’ll have to go alone, Therru. Past the village.”
The child nodded.
“Give it only to him!”
She nodded again.
Tenar tucked the paper into the child’s pocket, held her, kissed her, let her go. Therru went, not crouching and sidling now but running freely, flying, Tenar thought, seeing her vanish in the evening light beyond the dark door-frame, flying like a bird, a dragon, a child, free.
CHAPTER 8
HAWKS
Therru was back soon with Sparrowhawk’s reply: “He said he’ll leave tonight.”
Tenar heard this with satisfaction, relieved that he had accepted her plan, that he would get clear away from these messengers and messages he dreaded. It was not till she had fed Heather and Therru their frog-leg feast, and put Therru to bed and sung to her, and was sitting up alone without lamp or firelight, that her heart began to sink. He was gone. He was not strong, he was bewildered and uncertain, he needed friends; and she had sent him away from those who were and those who wished to be his friends. He was gone, and she must stay, to keep the hounds from his trail, to learn at least whether they stayed in Gont or sailed back to Havnor.
His panic and her obedience to it began to seem so unreasonable to her that she thought it equally unreasonable, improbable, that he would in fact go. He would use his wits and simply hide in Moss’s house, which was the last place in all Earthsea that a king would look for an archmage. It would be much better if he stayed there till the King’s men left. Then he could come back here to Ogion’s house, where he belonged. And it would go on as before, she looking after him until he had his strength back, and he giving her his dear companionship.
A shadow against the stars in the doorway: “Hsssst! Awake?” Aunty Moss came in. “Well, he’s off,” she said, conspiratorial, jubilant. “Went the old forest road. Says he’ll cut down to the Middle Valley way, along past Oak Springs, tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Tenar.
Bolder than usual, Moss sat down uninvited. “I gave him a loaf and a bit of cheese for the way.”
“Thank you, Moss. That was kind.”
“Mistress Goha.” Moss’s voice in the darkness took on the singsong resonance of her chanting and spell-casting. “There’s a thing I was wanting to say to you, dearie, without going beyond what I can know, for I know you’ve lived among great folks and been one of ’em yourself, and that seals my mouth when I think of it. And yet there’s things I know that you’ve had no way of knowing, for all the learning of the runes, and the Old Speech, and all you’ve learned from the wise, and in the foreign lands.”
“That’s so, Moss.”
“Aye, well, then. So when we talked about how witch knows witch, and power knows power, and I said—of him who’s gone now—that he was no mage now, whatever he had been, and still you would deny it—But I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Aye. I was.”
“He said so himself.”
“O’ course he did. He don’t
lie nor say this is that and that’s this till you don’t know which end’s up, I’ll say that for him. He’s not one tries to drive the cart without the ox, either. But I’ll say flat out I’m glad he’s gone, for it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do any longer, being a different matter with him now, and all.”
Tenar had no idea what she was talking about, except for her image of trying to drive the cart without the ox. “I don’t know why he’s so afraid,” she said. “Well, I know in part, but I don’t understand it, why he feels such shame. But I know he thinks that he should have died. And I know that all I understand about living is having your work to do, and being able to do it. That’s the pleasure, and the glory, and all. And if you can’t do the work, or it’s taken from you, then what’s any good? You have to have something. . . .”
Moss listened and nodded as at words of wisdom, but after a slight pause she said, “It’s a queer thing for an old man to be a boy of fifteen, no doubt!”
Tenar almost said, “What are you talking about, Moss?”—but something prevented her. She realized that she had been listening for Ged to come into the house from his roaming on the mountainside, that she was listening for the sound of his voice, that her body denied his absence. She glanced suddenly over at the witch, a shapeless lump of black perched on Ogion’s chair by the empty hearth.
“Ah!” she said, a great many thoughts suddenly coming into her mind all at once.
“That’s why,” she said. “That’s why I never—”
After a quite long silence, she said, “Do they—do wizards—is it a spell?”
“Surely, surely, dearie,” said Moss. “They witch ’emselves. Some’ll tell you they make a trade-off, like a marriage turned backward, with vows and all, and so get their power then. But to me that’s got a wrong sound to it, like a dealing with the Old Powers more than what a true witch deals with. And the old mage, he told me they did no such thing. Though I’ve known some woman witches do it, and come to no great harm by it.”
“The ones who brought me up did that, promising virginity.”
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